St Valentines Revenge. | ||
| Everyone who wanted to be anyone came that night. The black pop diva with the enormous breasts, the avant garde Japanese photographer and his wife who made Mortitia from the Adams family look frumpy. The Italian transsexual MP who had one e too many already and her boyfriend, the second hand car salesman, who scowled at her in a “I-need-to-fuck-you right-now” sort of way. Every media trade had sent their representatives. Fashion, theatre, magazines, high art, low art, pornography, photography and perhaps most importantly of all a personal representative of the Bolivian ambassador. Oh and a dwarf called Lenny. Lesley was putting the last touches to what she hoped would be her triumph. Fifty heart shaped helium balloons had just been delivered and she was releasing them into the huge high ceilinged party room. She looked at the flowers and the candles and turned to her flatmate John “I suppose you’ve invited Max?” she hissed. “I don’t know why you don’t like him.” “I ...” she couldn’t explain, but the song raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens inexplicably popped through her mind when the bell went. Excitement was running high. All the English girls had been looking forward to this, hearts with numbers to be pinned on lapels or dresses and a board for love messages in the bathroom. “Fancy a go number 2?” or “Yum yum no 8” The trouble was the bathroom became a coke den which rather took the romance out of it for Lesley. The foreign girls were in turn hoping it would become something of an orgy, whilst others were hoping it would be a drug fuelled bisexual sex fest at that. As the party progressed the helium balloons drifted across the ceiling in their own dance mirroring the human connections in the room below, their strings trailing across a shoulder here - the back of a neck, entwining what was above with what was below. Sebastian the artist who had notoriously been crucified, quite literally for his art swept in with his current girl. “I’m going to be stretched on a rack .” “For pleasure or art?” John asked. “Both if necessary.” He replied with a sepulchral sneer and struck a pose. But since no one paid him any attention he left in dudgeon muttering to himself that once he’d been stretched they’d change their tune. Meanwhile Lesley was watching Max the australian magazine man who prowled the party like a randy Tom cat. But he seemed to be talking to everyone but her. She sighed and brought out a tray of canapes. Handy B the black electro pop queen shimmied up to John and invited him into her dance whispering in his ear all the while her sweet molasses voice. “You turning straight then?” Toshiko, the Japanese photographer said to John. “No, just fancying girls - I don’t suppose you think your gay when you fancy boys? No didn’t think so.” Dr, Mackenzie, the impressively correct business partner of Max looked around the assorted debauchees and turned to Meela his girlfriend “Shall we slip off for half an hour?” Her eyes smiled their reply. Meanwhile Sir Andrew Coburn, the opera impresario was talking to Patrick his eccentric Irish accountant. “They’re all on drugs you know.” He tutted and sipped at his third pint of vodka. Relationships were coming together - some were couples looking for a third, others had been together a long, long time and drifted in and out of the singles with a look of resignation on their faces. And in one corner were a couple who spent the entire evening in much the same position. She was turned away from him, her body language suggesting deep hurt and he just stood facing her, projecting his love at her insecurity. And above all this, floated the balloons mirroring the debauch beneath. As the evening progressed the music got louder and the people got drunker - too drunk for an orgy but hopeful nonetheless. But somewhere above the music was the distant whir of a helicopter, too subtle for the revellers to hear. And in the garden outside, some men dressed in black combat gear were assembling. “OK boys”, the commander relayed through the head sets. “This is it. You’ve got your orders. These are very dangerous people. Got it? No quarter must be given, none taken. If anyone resists - shoot them.” And just as Gary Crush was putting his new experimental retro techno CD on, there was a loud crash and shattering of glass as the commandos abseiled through the French windows into the drawing room. “Ooh.” Said Amy in a drunken drawl. “Are these the strippers?” But it was the last thing she ever said as they opened fire, bullets spraying around the room with high velocity precision. All the revellers were taken by surprise and within a few seconds the place was quiet, not one was left standing, the floor strewn with blood, smoke and bodies. There was silence for a moment. Then the front door opened and Commander Preston entered. “You fucking idiots.” He shouted from between clenched teeth. “I said Belsize ROAD not GROVE.” There was an embarrassed silence. “Sorry sir...” “Right let’s get out of here. All bar privileges are suspended.” There were mutterings of Oh Gee and That’s not fair. But within two minutes they were out. A few seconds later Dr. Mackenzie returned with his girlfriend. “I told you John and Lesley throw a good party.” he turned to her. And way up on the high ceilings above the twisted, crumpled corpses were the red balloons - still in their positions from before. The only proof that love had ever been in the air. |
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